The Kill is in Me
by No Ones Buddy
Summary: Centenius family matters
1. Chapter 1

_*This is the backstory for an original Dungeons and Dragons character from an original universe.* _

_General Sir Centenius Oathbreaker, Hero of High point, Champion of Luvian, Slayer of the Dragon Guardian is in the same party as Eris Lychbane as told in Wild Horses, by DevilHerDue. But in this story he was just Centenius._

_This is the story of how a young soldier from a desert war nation came to be in a small port city in the north, become a mercenary and join up with his current party._

_"You can't cut surgically with a shaky hand, and honestly my nerves are shot again. Let me treat you like a doll and snap your neck in my hands." – P.O.S._

Gifted; that's what the general had called him. It had been two years, two hard years since the general's men had come to the Centenius vineyard to see, as they called him, "the man who cannot be struck." It was royal conscription that allowed the general to take the boy, only 17 at the time from his home and placed him in the King's army. Not that he would have resisted, every boy in Nefrun dreamed of serving. Dying with your boots on was a time-honored tradition.

The training was meant to be difficult.

"You thought the desert was hot without plate mail," His father said as he _helped_the boy put on his gauntlets, "General Yarith is an old friend. I served as his captain for years; he'll look after you, but don't count on his favor. You have to earn this."

"With the strength you have given me father." The boy turned and walked out to the waiting caravan of soldiers. "Wait!" cried the father as he grabbed the boy by the shoulder. The boy turned and the father embraced him, "You are the son I was meant to have."

The boy nodded. The King's army is no place for sentiment. These were not the dregs whom the king flooded into conquered lands to run the Nefrun flag up every pole, these were the best of the best.

The training was meant to be difficult.

But for the son of Arturus Centenius, It was literally child's play. He'd been wielding an axe since his fingers could grasp it. He was the strongest and the fastest. He was the best.

Two years of exceeding expectations and the Centenius boy found himself standing in an amphitheatre staring into the eyes of another soldier. The man was a captain, almost his father's age. He'd earned his stripes in the south, combating the wizards of Malif, just as Arturus had. His skin was dark, just as the boy's was.

"Friends and Subjects!" the king's minstrel's voice erupted from the balcony at the edge of the ring, "We gather today to witness the execution of a traitor. Captain Augustus Gaius and his men have attempted to kill the king and take his throne." The Crowd roared in disapproval. "As is Nefrunian tradition, Gaius will earn a stay if he can defeat the gatekeeper in single combat. Gaius, do you care to make a statement before your sentence is carried out?"

"I am a patriot," the captain exclaimed. The contemptuous hiss of the crowd was deafening. "In time you will all see." The captain pulled his helm down over his head and unsheathed his long sword, "I am ready."

"This is your final test," A familiar voice exclaimed. Centenius turned to see general Yarith standing in the ring. "General Yarith, I am honored by your presence sir." The general pulled from his pack a shining hand axe. "Kill this coward and you are a member of the royal guard." Yarith lifted the axe and gestured the handle toward Centenius, "Become the man you were raised to be."

Centenius' shaking hands steadied as they grasped the axe. He pulled down his helm and picked up the shield. He turned to the King's balcony and bowed. "Let it begin!" The minstrel's voice roared over the crowd. Centenius burst forth, fearlessly. There was no hesitation in his step; he'd abandoned that foolishness long ago. The crowd disappeared. There was no ring, no general, no king or minstrel. There was only the kill.

Centenius leapt into the air a few feet from the captain, bringing his axe down with great force. The captain parried the blow and turned as Centenius' landed behind him. The boy spun as he landed, his cloak kicking up a cloud of sand.

"I knew your father Arturus, he was a great man. I have heard tell of his son, I didn't know you were an executioner."

"Then you must know what they say of me."

"They say you cannot be hit."

Centenius lunged at the captain, striking his left arm. The captain stumbled, dropping his shield. He tumbled backward and upon standing produced another long sword.

"I intend to put that to the test."

"We'll see," said Centenius as he began to strike. The captain was strong; stronger than Centenius. He was hardened by a career of combat; every strike would have splintered lesser shields. Had any of them landed, Centenius would likely have fallen. But the boy stood steadfast, deflecting every blow as though it was a child striking him.

Centenius bashed the captain with his shield, sending him stumbling, if only for a moment. He struck low, finding a gap between plates on the captain's right leg. Centenius felt his axe cut through bone and ligament. The captain screamed in pain, dropping the sword from his right hand and losing his balance. Centenius threw down his shield and kicked the captain in the chest.

Gaius attempted to catch himself, but his knee cap was showing through his skin. He fell backward into the sand, dropping his remaining sword. Centenius grabbed him by his armor and lifted him to his knees. He pulled the captain's helmet from his head, and then his own. The captain's left eye was flushed with blood, he was breathing heavily.

"Finish it!" Yarith's voice roared from the edge of the ring. Centenius pulled his dagger from his belt and turned to the king, who nodded in favor. Gaius spit blood on to the sand below and looked Centenius in the eyes. "I wonder who they'll get to execute you."

"We only execute traitors." Centenius snarled as he raised his knife to Gaius' throat. Gaius laughed, "You are your father's son. To die by your hand is truly an honor." Centenius pulled Gaius close, "You don't deserve it." He pulled his blade across Gaius' throat. A stream of warm blood sprayed from the captain's neck covering Centenius' face and armor. He dropped him to the ground.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the slain captain bled out. Centenius began to walk back to Yarith when the trumpets began to blare. The massive doors at the edge of the ring flew open and out walked the king and his many servants. Centenius dropped to his knees and laid his axe at his side. "Hail King Erasmus!"

The king's men circled around Centenius and the king and Yarith approached him. "You are the Son of Arturus are you not?" Centenius kept his eyes at the ground, "I am sire, and it is an honor to be in your service."

"Raise your head, my son" The king said, searching for a spot on Centenius' shoulder not covered in blood to put his hand. "What is your given name?" Centenius raised his eyes and met the king's "Centenius is fine sire. It is the name under which my family has fought for generations."

"Your father has taught you well, and I see Yarith's words of praise were not exaggerated." The king motioned to one of his men who helped Centenius to his feet. "Welcome to my court Centenius." The king took Centenius' hand and raised it with his. The crowd leapt from their seats.

The king and his men exited. The crowd had begun to disperse as Centenius walked back to retrieve his shield. He looked down at the Captain, whose eyes were still open. He knelt down to close them as Yarith approached. "Show no pity to him. He deserves what you have given him." Centenius stood and embraced Yarith, "Thank you sir, for both the axe and the courage."

Yarith nodded and turned to walk away. "Don't go too heavy on the ale tonight, you've got a big day tomorrow." Centenius walked out of the Amphitheatre, turning as he left to see the captain's body being dragged over to a cart containing those of his soldiers. A peasant swept fresh sand over the congealing blood, and with that Gaius was gone. Centenius looked to the king's balcony," In this task, my lord," he turned and walked through the doors from which the King had come, "I will not fail."


	2. The Black Sheep

The Black Sheep: Twenty years previous

_You are the cause, I am the effect. Created in hatred, a noose for your neck._

Aldous Centenius was not the man he should have been; he was not the man he was _supposed _to be. He was the first son of Arturus Centenius, a great Nefrunian captain and Anansi, a powerful and enigmatic conductor. Despite his father's dark complexion he was born a ghastly white. It was the witch's blood that bleached his skin. He was born gaunt and ugly, conditions he would never outgrow.

From a young age he was reared in the way all Nefrunian men were, in combat. He was barely able to grasp a sword when he was thrust into combat. In one of his first provings a fellow lad struck him across the torso, drawing a narrow line of blood. Aldous dropped his sword and lunged at the boy. Bewildered and frightened, the boy dropped his sword and began to run. Aldous caught up to him and dragged him to the ground. Aldous sat atop the boy, his scrawny hands grasping with unseen strength around the poor child's neck.

Aldous looked into the boy's eyes as he took the life from them. It was not strangulation; it was something more, something primal. Aldous couldn't hear the screams. They were not the boy's, those were scared away. His legs thrashed, his hands were useless; Aldous grip tightened with each squirm. The boy's face was thinning and his eyes were bloodshot. The blush in his cheeks was replaced by porcelain white; it was as though his very soul was being taken from his body. Aldous' blood boiled furiously in his veins.

Aldous' eyes widened; his scowl turned to a smirk. There was no crowd, no instructor, no father, no mother, only the boy and him. He could not have known what he was doing, he was barely seven years old. The static waned, and the dull hiss in his ears focused into a horrid torrent of screams. "Aldous!" he finally made out, it was his father's voice, "Aldous stop!" He could see his father running from the stands toward his son. His trance was broken and he released the boy, whose tunic was now drenched in sweat and blood, both his and Aldous', his pants were soaked in urine.

"You peed on me," Aldous claimed, a disturbing calm in his voice. The boy was hyperventilating and crying his eyes out; blood trickled from his nose and down his face, which was regaining its color. A distraught woman swooped down to comfort the boy. Arturus was close now, he'd a look on his face Aldous could not describe, it was anger, but more than that; it was fear. Aldous barely noticed Arturus cock his hand back, and with a loud crack he was unconscious.

Aldous came to in his bed, he'd no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but it was dark now. The pain in his head was beyond compare. His nose was certainly broken. He lifted the sheets to see the wound on his chest had been dressed. He turned to get out of bed only to find his foot had been lashed to the bed post. He tried feebly to undo the knot, but if his father had tied it, it was unlikely he would be able to do so. He lay back down and began to focus on the whispers in the adjacent room; his father and mother were discussing the incident.

"You told me you wouldn't let this happen," Arturus boomed, with as much force as one can have while whispering, "You assured me that he would be raised a warrior. I will not watch my only son succumb to this sorcery." Anansi sighed, and pulled out a chair. "He is my son too, it was only to be expected that he would show signs of my power. I taught him nothing, it is in his blood just as it is in mine." There was a pause as Anansi leaned forward, "hope against hope, you knew this day would come Arturus. If you wanted a warrior you shouldn't have married a witch."

Anansi stood up and walked down the hall. She paused for a moment in the doorway to Aldous' room. She bore a bittersweet smile, "Get some sleep son, tomorrow will be a long day." It was difficult to make out with the flickering of the oil lamp, but it looked as though she was crying. "Mother?" it was barely a squeak, she disappeared and Arturus stood where she'd been, "Go to sleep Aldous." He turned and doused the light and all was dark and still.

Aldous woke to find his leg freed and a bag packed at the side of his bed. His toys were gone from the table in the corner of the room. He sprang from his bed and walked about the house. He saw no one, not his mother, his father, nor the many servants and hands that were usually bustling through the sprawling estate. It was in his inspection of the courtyard that he found his mother instructing two hands who were loading a small carriage.

"Quickly Aldous, we have to be going," there was an eerie urgency in her voice. "Where are we going?" the boy asked, sadness tinged his tiny voice.

"You'll find out when it's time, you've never been there before."

"Is father going with us?" Anansi's face sank. Regret rushed over her pale, flawless face. "No Aldous. he isn't." She turned back to the men loading the cart. She pulled a handkerchief and wiped her eyes and began calling orders to the hands. "How long will we be gone?" Aldous asked with genuine despair. Anansi turned back to the boy, who hadn't moved an inch, this time with a more stern inflection, "Aldous get in the carriage, we have a long distance to cover before night fall."

The carriage trudged through the loose sand which blew in from the desert just off the property. As they left the ground Aldous spotted a figure in his bedroom window. It was Arturus, he stood at the edge of the bed which had been Aldous' and was holding one of his son's wooden horse figurines. He glanced down at the carriage, but only for a moment and then pulled the curtain across the window. The Estate disappeared into the horizon, and with it, Aldous' innocence.


	3. In Vino Veritas

The Birthright

_I must have read a thousand faces. I must have robbed them of their cause._

"Damned shame, you know." The Sentry leader scoffed, gesturing to the man with Centenius' axe buried in his chest, "He was a good soldier." Centenius heart beat so loudly, it took him a moment to comprehend what the man had said. "Take his helm and gauntlets; no salvaging the chest piece." Centenius stepped on the man's chest and pried the war axe out of his collapsed chest cavity. The blade gave with that familiar crunch of a rib cage cloven in two.

The blood was impregnated with bits of bone and skin; the final blow had torn through chain and plate like it was butter. Centenius tore a piece of the man's tunic and wiped the gore from his axe. To think some people use axes to chop wood, it seemed like a waste. "Who is he?" asked Centenius as he began to remove the slain man's helm. "Southerner, part of Gaius' unit."

"Fuck." Called Centenius, more with lament than distress, "He's from my village. His father was the porter at the Luvian temple. Arturus told me he sparred with my older brother, before he died." The sentry turned to the man, whose name Centenius had forgotten, shook his head and then went back to removing armor from the corpses. "Damned apostates can't tell when they've been beaten." Centenius stood over the lifeless body, sullen with regret.

The sentry bustled about the bodies, taking anything of use, even pocketing some gold pieces when he thought no one was looking. He spoke of heresy and betrayal and loyalty to the king. His voice was muted by the blood trickling from Centenius' ears; one of his foes had been wielding a maul. He was motionless, unable to break his gaze. The man's eyes were still open, but there was no life in them. "There but for the grace of the gods." He whispered under his breath.

* * * *

The raucous coming from the royal hall was deafening. Get some ale in these nobles and their cries were more menacing than anything Centenius had heard in battle. The king stood, stein in hand to address the horde. "Honored guests!" He shouted, his voice was softer than most Centenius met. The king came to his throne through his own blood, not by shedding that of others. His hands were soft and his tunic was fine.

"I stand before you in glorious victory. I have held the siege off the siege of the heretics and shown them that the King of Nefrun will not be displaced so easily as they might have imagined." Centenius cringed, it was not the King who'd spilled blood, both his and that of his enemies on this day. It was not Centenius who cowered in his tower surrounded by men with blades. "I have thrown down my enemy and rendered his forces asunder. For my glory and that of Nefrun and her peoples."

Centenius thought back to his former comrade who now burned in a pile along with his compatriots, his plate mail hewn and bones broken. He saw the Luvian symbol in his mind and thought of all the damage that had been done, all of the lives lost on account of a symbol and a belief. At the head of the table the king belted on, spewing rhetoric with his usual tinge of doom, "These men; these...cowards seek to undermine everything my family has worked for over a century to achieve. I will lie dead, sword in hand before I see my country fall to these heathens."

The king was drunk, as was the fashion. With every word his gestures exaggerated, by the end of his speech he'd soaked most of the men at his table with better ale then they'd ever tasted. General Yarith stood up and helped the king from the table and out of the hall, presumably to his bed chamber. The hall began to clear out. The drunken nobles shambled out of the castle to waiting carriages.

Centenius had drawn last watch. He could feel the stitches in his side pull with each step and a dampness on his skin from the trickle of blood which remained. His head still pounding from the hammer blow the previous day, he stood at the entrance to the king's chambers and began to wage combat against the forces of boredom.

His fellow sentry, a man whose name he'd never felt it prudent to learn had clearly taken more from the evening's festivities than had Centenius. He was struggling to stand in place, weaving back and forth and leaning against the wall behind him. He leaned on his spear, at several points narrowly avoiding a very close shave. After an hour or so, the sentry's battle with alcohol was lost and he fell forward on to the marble floor with a loud clang of metal on stone. Centenius lifted the man by the back of his armor and attempted to bring him to his feet. It was all for naught as the man was deep in the throes of unconsciousness.

Unable to wake him, Centenius sought out Yarith to have him reprimanded. Walking past the inner sanctum and additional sentries he headed for the general's quarters. Yarith could usually be found at this hour reading books of strategy or perusing maps of enemy territories; Centenius was sure he wouldn't wake him. Yarith's study was empty, not even a lantern lit. The same was true of the rest of his quarters. Centenius remembered Yarith pulling the king from the royal hall and thought he may have been tending to him.

Centenius knocked upon the large double doors which stood at the King's quarters. They were wooden, truly a luxury in Nefrun which was primarily desert. He wrapped loudly several times before calling out for Yarith. There was no response. "Maybe in the armory" Centenius mumbled under his breath as he turned to leave. He was almost to the end of the hall when he heard it.

He heard the king's voice bellow in pain. He turned at once and ran back to the doors. He could barely make out the words, "Yarith!...Don't!...Stop!!..." there were grunts, at least two people. Centenius' mind raced. Yarith was the king's top adviser; he'd been loyal for years. He was the king's fist, the ceaseless force behind him, the best of his men. He'd heard wrong, he was certain of it. Perhaps the two men were being attacked by a third, but how would they have made it past the guards?

It mattered not. Centenius was in the king's guard. It was his solemn oath to protect him from any foe; to shield him from any blow, even from Yarith. He put his shoulder down, behind his shield and bashed open the doors. The sight was foreign to his eyes. On the floor in front of the bed lie two sets of armor, he knew in an instant by they were those of Yarith and the king.

Centenius turned his glance skyward and was met with what he'd hoped to never see. His blood turned cold, and his breath short. Centenius was a seasoned soldier, just one day previous he had seen a man's still beating heart torn from his chest. But no horror of war, no image macabre or insidious could have prepared him for the sight before him.

The king lay naked, face down on the bed, his legs draped over the side, just touching the floor below. He was grasping the blankets like the reigns of his chariot; his face was drenched in sweat. Behind him stood Yarith, also in the buff, holding on to Erasmus' hips and snarling. Centenius' shield was too heavy. It fell from his hand and with a loud clank, met the marble floor. As quickly as the shield fell, both men met Centenius' stare. There were no words; there was no use for them.

It seemed like days they stood there, eyes fixed. It was Yarith who broke the silence. "Guards!" he shouted, pulling away from the king and covering himself with the bedding. As quickly as the words left his mouth, Centenius could hear the clamoring of plate mail and the stomping of boots, "Centenius has attacked the king, kill him!" Centenius tried to speak, but nothing came. He picked his shield from the ground and turned to run. He quickly pulled the double doors closed and waited for his comrades who would be arriving momentarily to take his life.

He took a few paces back and waited for the clanking to slow, and when it did he rushed forward, his shield at his front. The doors flew open and the two sentries fell back, losing balance and crashing to the floor. Centenius ran. He dared not to look behind him. Even at his young age, he knew that no one would take his word over that of Yarith and King Erasmus. So he ran; he ran with nothing but the metal strapped to his back.


	4. Chapter 4

_Look at your eyes, they're small in size, but they see enormous things._

It wasn't a dragon exactly. When he regained consciousness Aldous' mother would tell him it was a Wyvern; something about how it only had two legs and was smaller. Aldous didn't get a great look, but all he could think, the only thought that could get past the crippling headache was, "well it sure looked like a dragon."

It had been a long journey. Aldous and Anansi had trekked across the bulk of Nefrun's deserts only to suffer weeks on a horrid little ship packed with the less than pleasant scent of, among other things, fish and sailors. "These are the beastlands, my son" Anansi said as the rugged terrain appeared on the horizon, "This is my home" she said, sounding as though she herself wasn't convinced by the words, "It is a dangerous place. I need you to understand that."

Aldous nodded.

She'd told him not to go anywhere by himself. Being seven years old however, he did not listen. There was a freshwater pond only a few dozen yards from where they'd made camp. Anansi had put out the fire before they'd gone to sleep, "Something might see it," she said. She failed to elaborate. Aldous lit a torch so that he couldn't step on anything nefarious on his walk to the pond. Aldous dropped to his knees and reached his hands into the water. He'd only ever seen water so clear in Oasis. In the silent ripple an ancient power met his gaze.

He could feel it before he saw it. _The heat, that raw heat .The deserts of Nefrun held not a candle._ Moon light shone off of its flawless teeth, each one as big as Aldous head. It smelled like a funeral pyre, charred flesh, not cooked, charred. It began to growl and then stopped perhaps realizing that its current intimidation was more than sufficient. Aldous had only ever seen dragons in paintings, and heard of them in bard's tales. The stories told of great legions felling the acrid beasts; very few tales featured lone seven year olds.

Running was of no use. Even at seven years old Aldous knew it. The beast's wings were vast; it could surely catch him without even taking flight. And so he stood. It was not of courage or valor; the boy had neither the means nor the confidence to combat this foe. He merely stood in defeat. "Take it like a man," Arturus would have said. But Aldous' frail bones and pale skin were not those of a warrior. He was only a boy.

The great Wyvern reared back. Its movements were grandiose and excessive. It was standing on ceremony to a crowd of one, one who would soon be little more than the singed husk of a terrified child. Aldous may have heard his mother's cries, but he was preoccupied. He heard nothing but the rush of air going into the Wyvern's massive lungs and felt only the massive force which pushed him from the path of the dragon's breath, that and of course the tree he hit.

It was morning when he came to, His head feeling far too big for the bandages wrapped around it. He was on a horse, his mother behind him, her arms reaching around him to grip at the reigns. There were figures on a horseback in front of him and behind. They were shrouded; they could have been men or women, young or old. All he could see was the pale skin of their hands. The flat barrens had turned to mountains. The path was treacherous, a narrow straight carved into the stone of the mountain, a sheer cliff to the adjoining side.

"Mother?" He eventually squeaked, the swelling had brought his eyes almost to a close. For a moment the pain made him wish the beat had slain him. "What happened to the dra-" He turned up to see Anansi's porcelain face scarred on her left cheek, the wound was stitched and dressed. "Wyvern." She cut him off, "Were it a true dragon we would not be alive. Had my tribesmen not found us, we would not be alive." She didn't look at the boy, she faced ahead. "I'm sorry mother" Aldous began to tear up. "Go back to sleep, Aldous" Anansi said, the compassion returning to her voice, "You need to heal."

Aldous once again woke to new surroundings. He was in a tent, on a bed. He hadn't slept on a bed he thought, since home. He stood perhaps too hastily, as the throbbing pain in his head had felt subsided when he was lying down, but was quick to return once he stood. As he began to fall backward, something caught him. It wasn't his mother, without looking Aldous wasn't even sure it was human. He turned sharply to see a hulking shelled creature. Aldous should have been used to seeing bizarre creatures in this land, but he wasn't. The sight of the creature, which looked to be both man and turtle, was too much for the already traumatized youngster.

Aldous screamed. The creature was not amused.

At least Aldous didn't think so; he'd not had much experience interpreting the body language of turtle men. The creature leaned forward and touched Aldous on the head, as Aldous tried in vain to slink away from its grasp. The instant the flipper-hand touched his face Aldous felt a rush of energy flow through his body. His eyes widened and he felt the wound on his head close. The searing pain or his injuries was replaced by euphoria. Aldous felt more than healthy, he felt impenetrable. Aldous tore the bandages from his head, and as children do, began to jump on the bed.

"I see someone is feeling better," Aldous recognized the voice as that of his mother's, "No excuse, however for poor manners." Aldous stopped jumping and sat back down on the edge of the bed. "This is Nyame, he is the head of my order." Nyame bowed slightly, and then took his leave, though the look on his face was clearly still contemptuous. "He's a turtle, mother!" Aldous said, with a tone of childlike whimsy and fright. "He is a Lidarian." She said, as if Aldous knew the word, "They are an ancient and powerful race. They created my order." Anansi produced a strange fruit and handed it to Aldous. "Eat this and go back to sleep, your body still needs mending. I must speak with Nyame and his friends." Anansi touched the boy's cheek and smiled slightly, then left the tent. In a brief moment as she left Aldous could see that the sky was once again dark. A cold draft came in as he hurriedly pulled the covers of the bed around him.

Aldous knew this next part well. It seemed like yesterday he eavesdropped on his parents discussing the boy before he was sent away with his mother. The wind occasionally blew open the drapes at the front of the tent and in the flicker of the camp fire Aldous could see figures; on the wind he could hear whispers, but only whispers, as if even here they needed be secretive. It was not about him, that much he could gather. There was no discussion of a boy or his mother. He could make out only a few words, many of them sounded foreign to him. One word, "Mathar?!" seemed to create a frenzy as the tone of the conversation took a turn for the serious following its initial mention.

The boy could take no more of the mystery and crept from his bed. The wind had died down and he could hear the voices more clearly. He got down on his knees to avoid being seen and pushed open the drapes just enough to fit his head. There were a few more of the Lidarians, though obviously not in as high a regard as Nyame. They were standing; it seemed likely that they would have difficulty sitting given their physique. His mother sat on the opposite side of the fire, her beauty accented by its iridescence. The two cloaked figures with whom they had been riding were also there, but they were sitting away from the fire, and their faces were still obscured. There were several others, some human, some not, most of them were cloaked. All Aldous could see of many of them were their hands, some of which had scales.

Aldous listened intensively to them talk, but much of what was being discussed was cryptic and vague. They spoke of a faceless evil, and a siege of the surface. They spoke of doom and the end of all things. After much discussion the members of the order sat in silent meditation. One by one they stood and took their leave. Only the Lidarians and Anansi remained. "Aldous…" Anansi said, her eyes still closed, "It's not polite to listen to a private conversation, Aldous." Her eyes were still closed. One of Nyame's men, or they could have been women chuckled. Aldous walked over to his mother, taking care to avoid the LIdarians, as he was disgusted by them.

"What were you talking about mother?" Anansi slowly opened her eyes and turned to the boy. "Hopefully my son, you will never have to know." Aldous began to tear up. Anansi wiped the boy's face. "If it happens, it won't be for many years, so you can cheer up. Run back in the tent and pack your things, we have to leave in the morning."


	5. Expatriate

Expatriate

_It's been about a year since my ears dried pop, for those that missed the show; oh my god._

It was a piece of shit little inn in a piece of shit little port town. But to a man who'd just spent the better part of a week dredging through the bogs and jungles of northern Nefrun, the acrid brew which was seemingly heaved at him from the creature tending the bar was as good as any he could remember. Centenius was on his fourth mug before he remembered that he had no coin.

In an attempt to salvage his dignity (as much as a deposed guard covered in a week of nature could salvage) Centenius offered to work off his tab to the bartender. The bartender, not quite the fool one would imagine in such an establishment took notice of Centenius Tunic. "You're a long way from the palace, son"

"I am a guard no longer," Centenius replied, saddened by the sight of his empty mug. The bartender glanced down to see the hand axe at Centenius side, and the blade which had clearly cloven more skulls than logs. "I may have something for you."

The bartender took Centenius through the store room and into a narrow alley behind the bar. Centenius could see torch light and hear some sort of commotion as he passed into the night. At the end of the alley was an unremarkable door, behind which was the source of the noise. The bartender knocked and a hatch flew open. On the other side Centenius could see only eyes. The bartender mumbled something to the eyes and then stepped aside.

The door opened and the bartender gestured for Centenius to go through. As he passed, the bartender placed a hand on his shoulder, "That little pot sticker is going to have to wait outside." Centenius considered it carefully, before removing the axe and handing it to the bartender, "This blade has spilled the blood of many, if you don't take care of it yours will be among them." The bartender was bewildered at the sincerity, but said nothing.

What was inside was of little surprise to Centenius. There was a crowd of dozens of men, shouting and holding sacks of coins. Centenius knew that smell, sweat and blood. Between the brawl and the crowd, the room was stifling, and the air was thin. The grunts stopped for only a moment, and then a body fell to the dirt floor with a satisfying thump which only came from a lifeless body. The crowd paused for a moment, and then just as quickly surged into frenzy.

After a few minutes, money changed hands and the crowd thinned out. Centenius approached to find the body of a young man with a swollen face and broken bones. A priest knelt over him and attempted to resuscitate the boy but did not avail. The priest glanced over at a man sitting at a table in the corner and shook his head. The man at the table gestured to the men standing by the door and they dragged out the body.

The bartender returned and put his hand on Centenius shoulder. "You're up next my boy." Centenius brushed the man's hand off of him, "Who am I fighting?" he replied looking at the trail of blood which led back into the alley. "Biggun in the corner," The bartender pointed to a sweat covered mammoth standing at what could be called the bar. He had a mug in his hand and no shirt on his back. His voice was booming, even over the raucous. A barmaid approached him with another ale. He snatched the mug from the tray on which it has been sitting. The girl gasped and the man laughed. She turned to leave and the man slapped her ass with enough force to make her wince visibly. "They call him Wrexus" the bartender said, "and he is one dumb sodding fucker."

Centenius began to remove his armor and set it in a pile against the wall. "Is this it?" Wrexus yelped from across the room, "This puny fuck?! Can no man challenge me?" Centenius said nothing, but continued to remove his armor, which had been strapped to his back for near a week. He stood up straight with a series of audible cracks and pops, and stretched his arms and legs. The bartender handed him a rough and tattered tunic, "No sense in getting blood on those fancy royal clothes." Centenius considered and obliged, removing his tunic and donning the other.

Wrexus downed his beverage and walked toward the de facto ring. Centenius was stretching opposite him. He spoke to the bartender, "Is this the best you could find? He's puny and he smells like he spent a week in a bog."

"Better than a week in a bottle" Centenius said. Wrexus took a few steps forward and spit on his face. Centenius sighed and wiped it with his tunic. He turned to the bartender, "Any rules?" The bartender shook his head and leaned in to whisper to Centenius, "This cretin hasn't paid his tab in months, and I don't exactly have the clout to make him. Finish him off and you'll drink for a week."

Wrexus continued to grandstand, taunting Centenius and yelling in his face, though the words were hard to make out, as it was obvious that those two drinks were not his first of the evening. Wrexus had his finger in Centenius face, and was slurring something about his mother when Centenius struck him in the stomach. Wrexus staggered back, before lurching upright. He attempted to say something, but couldn't quite get it out. He reared back and swung his fist at Centenius' head with as much force as he could muster. Centenius side stepped the blow, and deemed himself lucky for doing so; drunk, idiot or both, this mouth breather was strong.

Wrexus looked perplexed but came at him again. Again Centenius dodged the blow, this time taking a step back. "Holllld still!" the monster shouted. Centenius dashed forward and struck Wrexus in the side of his knee, causing him to stagger and fall. Centenius gave him a swift kick to the jaw as he fell, and then another as he was doubled over. The fool tried to get back up and Centenius struck him once more. This time he went down and stayed there.

The crowd which had been circled around them was silent, if only for a moment before the roars began once again. On the floor Wrexus was convulsing, a thick pool of crimson was gathering beneath his skull. He coughed a few times and struggled to breathe before closing his sunken eyes for good.

The fair dressed man who had the previous body taken away did the same with the fell beast, Wrexus. He stepped over the puddle of grey matter impregnated blood and approached Centenius. "That mindless brute you just killed has a lot of friends in this town. Not to say that I don't enjoy seeing a corpse of him, but when word gets out you killed him; this won't be a safe place for you."

Centenius shrugged and began to gather up his armor and tunic, "I don't plan on staying long." He said having now turned away from the man. "Of course not," The man said with a smirk, "You have to get back to guarding the king." Centenius stopped for a moment, and then resumed.

"Not many outside of the city recognize my vestments. " Centenius turned back, facing the man. "However, I am in the guard no longer." Centenius began to leave, stepping over the bartender who was rifling through Wrexus' pockets. He was almost to the door when the man spoke once more, "From what I hear General Yarith isn't too forgiving to deserters." Centenius stopped in stride. He pulled the dagger which he'd strapped to the inside of his thigh.

He lunged at the man but before he could strike found himself unable to move. The man approached Centenius taking the knife from his hand. "You are a strong lad, and clearly well trained in battle, but there is more to victory than strength of arms alone." He held the dagger to Centenius' throat. "It would be a shame for such a great soldier to meet such an undignified end."

He put the dagger back in Centenius hand, and in a moment Centenius was again able to move freely. "I may have use for someone of your talents." The man said, "unless of course you like beating up locals to pay your bar tab." Centenius wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to shake off his recent brush. "If you can get me out of Nefrun, I will do what you wish in return."

"Very well, my lad. Rest well, for in the morning we set sail for the Mogul Vale." The man reached out his hand and Centenius took it. His sleeves were long, but Centenius noticed a peculiar tattoo on his wrist; it appeared to be a shackle. "I am Ehren. And what may I call you?"

Centenius considered the notion. His name was no longer safe. He could only be a few days ahead of Yarith's men at best. His thoughts returned to the soldier from the south who'd taken Centenius' axe in the chest, the boy from his village, his brother's friend.

"You may call me Porter."


End file.
